Wild beam, wild boy, you burn so bright
by ConstantComment
Summary: Merlin discovers something about Arthur and, somewhere between the boom-box and the bathtub, they discover something about themselves.


**Title:** Wild beam, wild boy, you burn so bright  
>Recipient: <strong>riventhorn<strong>  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Merlin discovers something about Arthur and, somewhere between the boom-box and the bathtub, they discover something about themselves.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13 (for hints of sexuality issues and language)  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> All Merlin characters herein are the property of Shine/BBC. No copyright infringement is intended.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> ~1,600  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> Riventhorn I was inspired by your prompts! This was totally meant to be a little drabble, but it grew into a wonderful, flangsty little ficlet that I hope you'll enjoy greatly. I used every one of your prompts, actually. :) Title is inspired by Jónsi's "Boy Lilikoi," which captures an Arthur/Merlin relationship quite accurately, in my opinion. The songs on Arthur's mixed CD are "Waterfalls" by TLC and "After Hours" by We Are Scientists.

-

Merlin is racing up the plush carpeted stairs of the Pendragon estate, is eager, vibrant. His face hurts from smiling and he can almost feel his heart battering against his ribcage, like it wants to leap out of his chest.

He doesn't know why, exactly, but he always feels this way about Arthur. Like he absolutely cannot wait another second to see him.

They've gone through some rough patches, recently. Merlin's mum says that best friends often do, but Merlin can't help but feel it's different. Arthur is different. At least, he had been for the past couple of months until he'd taken Merlin to the botanical gardens in town and pretty obviously had _not_ apologised. Merlin had smiled anyway, given him a big enthusiastic hug and demanded they buy ice cream on the way home, propping his shoes on Arthur's dashboard as a petty payback. No matter what has happened in the past couple months, no matter how remote and impulsive and _angry_ Arthur has been, Merlin is still his friend. He's not a _girl_—he can't hold a grudge for shit.

Because he remembers when they were little—jousting with uncooked pasta at the Emrys' and riding their bikes down the Pendragon's driveway like they were motorcyclists and scraping their knees as they played jungle explorers out in the Kilgarrah Orchards. They were—are—mates. And Merlin _knows_ that Arthur remembers those times too.

Besides, Merlin might have missed Arthur just a little, so he was willing to forgive and forget if Arthur would try being his friend again instead of a gargantuan _prat_.

His trainers make the floorboards creak as he speeds down the hall, book-bag slung lazily over his shoulder. There's soft music coming from Arthur's room, the kind that Merlin likes (because he's not hard to please, as long as he can dance around "like an epileptic" as Arthur says), but it's not usually _Arthur's_ thing.

Merlin opens the door and on the inside, footie posters and funny doodles and photos spattered over the walls, the music is louder and Merlin rolls his eyes at the fact that it's an R&B song, some inspirational 90's crap that Merlin put on Arthur's iPod to annoy him. The carpet is strewn with other memorabilia, a chronicle of Arthur's friendships and schedule, judging from the abandoned Rugby kit shoved halfway under the wardrobe.

Merlin looks up.

Arthur is standing—posing, really—in front of his floor length mirror that faces the bed. He obviously cannot see Merlin gaping at him in shock.

And Arthur's got a dress on.

Merlin hasn't even the time to notice the colour of the dress because Arthur has lipstick on, and startling eye shadow, and he looks like he's poked himself in the eye one too many times because his eyes are red rimmed but his long eyelashes are dark with mascara. Those eyes are bright as he bites his lip and turns, scrutinizing his silhouette, and Merlin is drawn to the line of his spine, exposed because the ill-fitting dress only zips halfway up, squeezing him around the ribs and stretching the fabric awkwardly across his back. His legs are golden until mid-thigh, muscles fish belly white for an inch or so until the edge of the short dress hides everything else from view.

That feeling is back again, like his chest is too small for his heart—like it needs space, freedom. He holds his breath, feeling feverish.

There's a moment, then. When Arthur stares too long at himself in the mirror, flicking his hair into his eyes and licking the lipstick off his teeth, and then he's angry. Frustrated, he struggles with the tight fit as he shoves the dress down his hips and nearly topples over as he spins around to throw it at the far wall.

"Merlin!" he gasps. His voice cracks as his face goes pale, lips stark and red and eyes wide. He's standing in the middle of the room in his red briefs, holding the crumpled dress tight in his fist.

Merlin opens his mouth to say _something_, but Arthur's whipping around to bolt into the loo. The door slams, and Merlin is left still standing in the doorway. The song fades out, leaving them in silence.

Merlin takes a deep breath, dumping his backpack on the bed and shuffling to the door that separates him from his best friend.

A new song comes on, upbeat and wistful and determined all at once. Merlin knocks softly.

"Arthur?" he asks. "Arthur…" He knows he's not good at this.

"Go away," Arthur mumbles from behind the door.

"Arthur, come on, it's not—it's not a big deal. I mean—"

"What are you doing here?" is the sharp response, a little shrill.

"I wanted you to come with me to Olsson's, get that Decemberists album and maybe a pizza from Formaggio's. I know your father's at that event tonight." There's silence for a moment, and Merlin sits down, staring at the doorknob.

"Why didn't you call me first?"

"M'sorry!" Merlin says plaintively. "It's just… it's not usually an issue, is it? You've never said anything about it before."

Arthur makes a frustrated noise, kicks the wastebasket over.

"I'm sorry," Merlin apologises again, leaning his forehead against the door. "Let me in?"

"Go. Away," Arthur grits, stubborn and choked.

"What—don't keep me out." Merlin knocks again. "I don't care, Arthur," he exclaims nervously, knowing he's about to vomit words everywhere. "You can… you can do whatever you want. Mum says Uncle Gaius used to dress in drag in the seventies, so it's not weird to me! I mean it's weird 'cause I'm not used to it but the point is. Shit, Arthur. I don't care what you like to wear in your spare time. Be whatever you—"

"Shut up, _Mer_lin," groans Arthur. Merlin can practically _feel_ how mortified Arthur is right now, can imagine his ruddy face as he's no doubt mashing the heels of his palms in his eyes and smearing make-up across his cheekbones. But Arthur's tone has changed. He sounds resigned, like he knows Merlin will barge in anyway.

Merlin smiles despite the situation, feeling a silent giggle bubble up from his chest, knowing he's winning.

"Arthur, let me in!"

"…No."

Merlin sighs. "Please?"

Arthur answers after a beat, "The door's open."

Merlin rolls his eyes and turns the knob slowly, half-crawling into the bathroom and peering around the door.

Arthur is huddled in the claw-footed bathtub, face as flushed and tear-streaked as Merlin imagined it would be. His eyes are watery and staring anywhere but at his friend.

It isn't until Merlin climbs over the side of the tub that Arthur looks, and then he's crying again.

"Hey, hey," Merlin croons, and sitting down with a loud squeak of his shoe soles on porcelain, he drapes an arm around Arthur's shoulders, pulling him close. "What's wrong, mate?"

"I don't know," he responds, voice strangled.

Merlin closes his eyes, heart fluttering again, skipping beats. He leans his forehead against Arthur's temple, nosing his friend's soft hair.

"Oh Arthur," Merlin whispers. He closes his eyes against that same breathless feeling and kisses Arthur's cheek.

And Arthur—God—Arthur makes the worst and best sound in the world; it's in the back of his throat—this hurt little whine as he turns to Merlin, their noses bumping, so close.

Merlin goes for it. And no, he's not disappointed, although it's a little funny with the chalky-tasting lipstick. And it's not perfect by any means. Merlin thinks he nicks Arthur's gum when their teeth clack together, but Arthur is not deterred at all, grabbing at one of Merlin's ears while the other fists in Merlin's t-shirt, stretching the fabric around his knuckles when Merlin brushes a hipbone with his fingers.

Arthur tastes a little like that lemon sparkling water he likes to drink, but better. He's warm, and wet, and pliant.

It seems to last forever, but it's still not enough, even though his lungs kind of burn and his heart is beating about in his head, now. But Merlin can feel Arthur's pulse slamming under his skin where Merlin has spread a hand across Arthur's chest. They gasp into each other's mouths, but Arthur's pressing tiny kisses to Merlin's lips between breaths. Merlin hums.

"I don't care, Arthur," Merlin says after some time, voice quiet.

Arthur nods, wrapping his arms around Merlin.

"What I _do_ care about is my legs cramping up, though," he adds a minute later.

Arthur bites at Merlin's bicep.

"Ow! Prat!"

"Idiot," Arthur says, muffled in Merlin's armpit.

Merlin smoothes Arthur's hair fondly. "Let's get you cleaned up and watch a movie or something, yeah?"

Arthur sniffs and exhales loudly in response.

"_Okay_!" Merlin exclaims and scrambles out of the tub, tugging Arthur with him.

"Can we watch Wall-E again?" Arthur asks shyly, pulling a surprised laugh out of Merlin.

He giggles and grins down at his best friend for much too long.

Arthur's answering smile fades a little and his gaze flits away, locates the wrinkled dress in the corner next to the radiator. He wipes at his mouth.

"Well, shit, you've got mascara all over my Green Lantern shirt," Merlin jokes finally, turning away and wetting a flannel, only to flop it over Arthur's head in the next second.

Arthur shrugs, removing the towel from its perch and wiping the dark black and blue off of his cheeks and eyelids. He looks exhausted and a bit fragile, but he's beautiful. "I'll buy you three more."

Merlin grins. "And I'll buy you a dress that fits!" he whispers.

Arthur chases him onto the sofa with the washcloth, and they collapse in a heap of gawky boy-limbs.

This time the kiss is even better, and Arthur tastes less like lipstick and more like home.


End file.
